


Anonymous

by Reneehart



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Anal Sex, Biting, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Bottom Will Graham, Choking, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Dom Hannibal Lecter, Dom Will Graham, Dom/sub, Face-Fucking, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, M/M, No Aftercare, Painful Sex, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sub Hannibal Lecter, Sub Will Graham, Top Hannibal Lecter, Top Will Graham, Under-negotiated Kink, like immediately besotted, unbeta-ed all mistakes are my own
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 07:08:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28347420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reneehart/pseuds/Reneehart
Summary: He hummed thoughtfully to himself, sliding his hand reluctantly from the curls to trace the curve of his face. He smiled when the man leaned into it before correcting himself, sharply pulling away from the gentle touch. “While I’m not disappointed with the turn this is taking, might I at least know your name before we continue?” Hannibal asked.He frowned at the question, hoisting himself up to his feet and taking a step backward. “I prefer to keep it anonymous if you don’t mind. Less personal that way.” He spoke with an accent, the syrupy twang of a man born and raised on the bayou of Louisiana even as he tried to soften it- smooth the dip of his consonants and shorten his vowels.Hannibal resisted the pull of a smile, quirking his brow. “And if I mind?”He was nonplussed, shrugging dismissively as he said, “Then I’ll find someone who doesn’t.”Or, when out on the hunt for new prey, Hannibal runs into a curious young man and decides to feed a different sort of hunger
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 28
Kudos: 144





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BelladonnaWyck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelladonnaWyck/gifts).



> It has been not so subtly brought to my attention that I make too liberal a use of the slow burn trope. So I present my Fuck at First Sight Anti-Slow Burn, brought to you from Horny Jail, in partnership with Spite.
> 
> Warnings: Heed the tags. Dom/Sub tones. Rough sex. Poorly negotiated/under-negotiated kink, deepthroating, rimming, dirty talk, choking, unprotected sex, no aftercare. Sexual psychoanalysis (yeah, I’m sorry about that one, too). Fan fic isn’t sex ed.

**Anonymous**

The club was a loud, discordant din- chatter and laughter an uneven rupture of sound against the music. Something synthetic that resonated through the carpeted floors- faded with age. Hannibal felt the song through his veins, mimicking the pulse of his heart as he sat at the bar, hands settled in his lap to avoid touching the laminate countertop- tacky from the polyurethane finish and lingering traces of spilled drinks.

His glass sat before him, beads of condensation slipping down the beveled edges of the short glass, saturating the napkin placed beneath. The scotch was deep amber, the liquid trembling around the meniscus with the undulation of the music. He curled a hand around it, settling it against his lips and taking a slow sip as he glanced at the scene sprawled out before him.

The lounge was built within the gutted out shell of an old theater hall, velvet-lined chairs ripped from the floor save only a few rows surrounding the stage. Red curtains framed the set, crushed velvet- the once brilliant hue long forgotten beneath the coating of dust that clung to the unforgiving fabric. Lacquered wood flooring too bright even beneath the dim, muted colors of the lights set upon the dais. A halo of violets illuminating the contorted angles of elbows; the bowing slope of an arched back. An ethereal glow against the canvas of cream-colored flesh, mottled in pink bruises framed with bite marks like parentheses.

Sex turned into a performance, a simulated act to circumvent the public decency laws as much as allotted. It was, technically, against the rules even in a club such as this where depravity was rewarded. Where wanton hedonism stretched across the expansive room, tucked within the alcoves as paired off strangers flirted with the thrill of public affection.

He stuck out plainly, his bespoke and flamboyantly patterned suit a jarring contrast to the wardrobe of the other patrons. Cheap lace and glossy leather, strategically arranged to reveal smooth stretches of skin. It was not an ideal way to hunt, dressed and polished in his usual manner that was ill-fitting in most settings- least of all one such as unsavory as this. Remarkable enough to be noticed, to be remembered through an evening otherwise made hazy with lust, delight and the occasional indulgence of alcohol- a barkeeper careful enough to prevent over-serving.

Yet, it was precisely the risk that made it more thrilling. There was an excitement to it, hunting in such an open space. In an unfamiliar venue and city, spending his days performing the tawdry business tasks that sent him there in the first place and the evenings sampling the more sordid aspects of the culture. Acquainting himself with the underbelly of a world he would soon depart and clubs such as these were ideal for his hunts.

The goal was to be unnoticed and unseen by all but those they called to, to be anonymous among a sea of darkened faces. Nameless.

The clubs were the same, no matter how far out he traveled. A dress code that was encouraged that bouncers would ignore for a price, a rigidity to the structure of the clubs that seemed at odds with the otherwise lackadaisical nature. There were standards to be held though- safety to be maintained and Hannibal was always well-behaved enough to never raise any alarms.

Or at least, was careful to never be noticed as he indulged in his more wicked wants.

This evening he found himself in New Orleans- a city known enough for its debauchery that the existence of such a club seemed almost quaint. Yet, it was one of the more unassuming ones he had visited, hidden behind the facade of an old theater, rich with the old world charm that seemed to shroud the city. Preserving and calcifying it.

And the food was, as always, a favored delight of his trips, and New Orleans was no exception. Though the heat was more than his standard palate tolerated, he enjoyed the cuisine- appreciated the French notes it borrowed and adjusted. Even if he had yet to sample his preferred sort of cuisine, the hunger searing along his belly and itching beneath his skin. It would not be abated by the sort of food offered on menus.

No, he would have to satiate it like the predator he was. Cutting flesh from bone with his own dexterous hands; sear it within its rendered fat until it was crisp and tender.

He continued his perusal from his perch on the barstool, saliva pooling behind sharp and crooked teeth in anticipation. His ice clinked together in the glass as he rose it to his lips, taking long and purposeful sips. Indulged in the heat and burn that slid down the back of his throat, spreading across his abdomen. He nursed it, knowing it would be the only drink this evening. He held his liquor well yet he preferred to be clear-headed; no obstruction between his thoughts and reason and his limbs lofty and unweighted.

He felt the stare first at the back of his neck, prickling along the clipped hair. A palpable thing, as incessant as a thumb held to his nape and when it didn’t relent after precisely eighty-two seconds, he twisted around in his seat in a graceful turn. He kept his gaze lowered to the bar, purposefully delaying eye contact with whoever felt fit to observe him for several long and dragging seconds. He tugged at the corners of the napkin his drink was set on- saturated and resisting as it clung to the counter. He arranged it so that it was set evenly, perfectly parallel with the edges of the bar before taking hold of the glass once more.

He tipped his head back as he sipped at the drink, eyes half-lidded as they fell to the crowd.

His gaze fell easily to the man leering at him, finding it without hesitation and to his credit- he did not falter at the obvious confrontation. He did not flush with shame at having been so obviously discovered in his attentions. In fact, his only response was to tilt his head to the side and narrow his eyes in scrutiny as though peeling Hannibal apart- layer by layer. A crude and voyeuristic dissection, eyelashes batting as his eyes lowered in appraisal before rising once more.

And then his lips twitched into a quick, flitting smile, the word _demure_ coming to mind. He pushed away from the counter without any further preamble, darting to the parted doors that spread out into the corridor.

Hannibal stood before he could fully consider his actions, reaching into his wallet and plucking the first bill he found there. He slapped it on the table beside his half-empty glass, certain that it was more than enough to cover his modest tab, and followed the man.

He did not hasten his steps- finding no reason to degrade himself enough to alter his gait for someone- and by the time he entered the hallway, the man was gone.

  
The space was disorienting in its quiet- the thrum of the music still a steady pulse, resonating in the papered halls and beneath his feet. But it waned, tapered in the slight distance and between the walls. The air, too, was thinner; less congested with regurgitated breath and the smell of sweat-slicked skin. It felt as if the temperature had dropped nearly ten degrees and he was acutely aware of the chill on his fevered flesh, warmed by the press of a crowded room.

He followed the hallway, peering curiously into the stairwells he passed. He didn’t avert his gaze when he found a couple tucked away, clothes a bunched pile at their waists and skin slapping obscenely together but he did not linger unduly on it either. He turned down the corner when the hallway came to an end, the passage narrower here, the wall lined with rooms.

Dressing rooms, he supposed. From when the theater was still operational and local starlets waited with wringing hands for their debut to the stage that was now hosting a far different sort of show. There was something humorous in the notion, something wretched and ironic that he might have examined further had he not been distracted by the sight of a shadow tossed against a wall. A slim silhouette from within a room and he moved toward it.

He barely stepped inside the frame of the door before he was pulled within, firm hands grasping at his shoulders and dragging him in the room with startling agility. The door was closed- a fact he heard more than saw, his vision spun out from under him as he was slammed against the door in question, lips pressing ardently against his own.

He wasn’t surprised, of course. Wasn’t this the promise offered by such establishments? Loose and noncommittal dalliances found within the hollowed-out hall? An intent made clear by the man even if he had been on the more restrained end of coquettish when he lured Hannibal to the discrete rooms.

The kiss was hungry, demanding in such a way that surely he would be foolish for denying it, the press of the body against his own a pleasing form. Solid and slight, the firm and unyielding structure of well-toned muscles beneath the modest wardrobe of jeans and buttoned-up flannel.

A tongue prodded at the seam of his mouth, licking against his teeth when he parted his lips. Hands grasped at his hips- or perhaps clawed was a more adequate descriptor, fingers leaving bruises and untrimmed nails catching on the fabric of his outfit as he tried to find bare skin. A growl rumbled in the stranger’s throat, frustrated with the too many layers that acted as a barrier.

With a sigh that called to mind a muted tantrum, the man relented, dropping to his knees and reaching to unfasten Hannibal’s trousers. His movements came to an abrupt halt when Hannibal grasped his wrists, locking them in a bruising hold.

He glanced up at that, features twisted into a petulant scowl, and it the first real look at him Hannibal had. The bar too shrouded in shadows, crowded with too many faces to get a proper sight of him. He was clear now in the light of the dressing room, the dim golden light washing him in an unflattering bask of yellow.

Despite it- or perhaps in spite of- he was still beautiful. His head was a crown of dark curls, twisted locks framing a delicately angled face. Distinctly masculine, his jaw wide and tapering into an angular chin yet he was almost feminine in the softness of his features. Plush heart-shaped lips and a rounded, slightly upturned nose; long lashes fluttering over wide azure eyes.

He was stunning, and Hannibal indulged himself in the sight of someone so lovely set on their knees in supplication before him, lips swollen from their heated kissing.

“How old are you?” Hannibal asked after a moment, eyes narrowed almost suspiciously at the youthful visage. They carded well to ensure no minors strolled within- with a proper device that traced the magnetic strip- yet he was dubious as he considered the younger man at his feet.

He furrowed his brow, his offense at the question clear. “Twenty,” he spat, the words acerbic. Then, in a teasing lilt obviously intended to poke at Hannibal, added, “how old are you?”

It was, objectively, deplorable behavior. Intentionally derogatory and childish, lips twisted into a pout. Hannibal had killed for lesser offensives- slips of decorum that were not so purposeful as this and yet he found it almost amusing.

_Endearing_ , even, he thought as he released hold of one of the wrists to thread his fingers through the curls. They were soft yet dry, brittle by some horrid three-in-one concoction. He smelled of cheap soap and matching aftershave, thoroughly showering before an evening of debauchery. It was charmingly considerate, and though _this_ hunger was not the one he planned on satisfying tonight it was the most tempting.

He would never lower himself to engage with pigs in such a manner, and as exquisite as the man would look writhing beneath him in agony with his skin flayed apart he was certain he would look more exquisite in the throes of pleasure. Consumed with desire and curiosity for all the different ways he might feast himself on the man. What sort of pinched expressions could flit over his face? What tempting and delicious noises could Hannibal urge from his throat?

He hummed thoughtfully to himself, sliding his hand reluctantly from the curls to trace the curve of his face. He smiled when the man leaned into it before correcting himself, sharply pulling away from the gentle touch. “While I’m not disappointed with the turn this is taking, might I at least know your name before we continue?” Hannibal asked.

He frowned at the question, hoisting himself up to his feet and taking a step backward. “I prefer to keep it anonymous if you don’t mind. Less personal that way.” He spoke with an accent, the syrupy twang of a man born and raised on the bayou of Louisiana even as he tried to soften it- smooth the dip of his consonants and shorten his vowels.

Hannibal resisted the pull of a smile, quirking his brow. “And if I mind?”

He was nonplussed, shrugging dismissively as he said, “Then I’ll find someone who doesn’t.”

It was, all at once, a thought too intolerable to consider. He was nothing more than a stranger Hannibal had known for mere minutes, a majority of which were spent ardently tasting the other, yet the thought left a bitter film on his tongue. It soured in his belly, the idea that another might experience his touch. Might inspire all the sounds that were meant to be for Hannibal and him alone. “I don’t mind,” he assured, content enough to know him by the arch of his spine and the cadence of his moans.

The man nodded, his wrinkled brow smoothing as his features relaxed. He stepped closer to Hannibal once more, settling his hands on his hips and lowering his head. Teeth clasped around Hannibal’s bared throat, nipping playfully over the smooth stretch of skin. When they retreated, it was to murmur a question against his carotid. “You like it rough?”

Hannibal’s grin was feline as he said, “please.” In response, the stranger growled, slotting a leg between Hannibal’s and grinding against his thigh. His length was hard beneath the tightly-fitted jeans, heat emanating between the layers of cloth.

“Safeword?” he asked, punctuating the question with a bite- harder this time, sharp enough that Hannibal hissed behind his teeth and canted his hips forward. Searching for friction that wasn’t to be found.

He nearly laughed at the prompt, considering the practice more a challenge than a courtesy. He was familiar with the thrill that came of mingling pain with pleasure, delighted in the cruder aspects of such intimacy.

But it was not simply a courtesy so much as a baseline, and though he doubted he would once evoke the phrase- if for nothing other than a curiosity to see how it might progress unheeded- he considered the question. The man was relentless in his feasting as he thought, teeth dragging down the column of his throat, biting sharply at the juncture and sucking against the wound.

After a moment of rumination, he said in a surprisingly strained voice, “Mongoose.”

A huff of laughter fluttered across Hannibal’s collarbone as the man lowered his attentions, hands sliding up and pushing the jacket from his frame. “Right. Mongoose,” he muttered, part humorously and part incredulous, hands roving across Hannibal’s chest now that an article of clothing had fallen to the floor.

It didn’t bother him as much as it ought to have, the fabric creasing and wrinkling as it sat in a pile- discarded and forgotten.

The stranger pulled at the knot of the tie, yanking it down in a too-rough motion; the other hand rose to Hannibal’s mouth, tracing the curve of his lips in a soft caress. A mockery, it seemed, as seconds later the fingers plunged within his mouth, hooking against the inside of his cheeks. He was still grinding against Hannibal, nearly riding his thigh as he bucked into it with reckless abandon. “And if your mouth is too busy being put to better use, just tap me three times,” he amended, pressing a chaste kiss to the side of his mouth not fish hooked on the fingers. It was a stark contrast, a mix of dichotomies crafting the shape of the young man.

He was, in a singular word, _compelling._ Wide eyes and cherubic curls creating a charming and coy facade, hiding the cruelty that shifted within. His bites were restrained, careful to not break through the skin- though whether that was simply a cautionary restraint for medical safety or a personal boundary was unclear. He was vicious and clumsy, undressing Hannibal with fervent hands that would not hesitate to rip the stitching of his clothes if they resisted his efforts and Hannibal was both thankful that it had not been necessary and disappointed by the same.

He broke away abruptly once Hannibal was bare from the waist up, sliding a hand across the firm planes of his torso- fingers twisting through the chest hair and rewarded with a sharp gasp. His gaze was appreciative- _hungry-_ as he followed the contours of his form, settling on the obvious bulge that pulled the fabric of his trousers taut. A pink tongue darted from his mouth, wetting his lips in a motion Hannibal suspected was instinctual.

The man stepped back, reaching to undo his own clothing and for a brief, fleeting second, Hannibal was angered by it. Treated too passively by the young man and he wanted to wrap a hand around his throat and shove him to the floor, pin him down as he tore the clothing from his writhing form. A ploy for control, to reassert himself as the apex predator he had begun the evening as.

It was, in the end, his intrigue that kept him rooted to the spot, unabashedly watching the man undress as he reached to undo his own trousers. He was no stranger to sexual trysts- sampling kinks and partners with decadent vigor. He treated his unions with the same unrestrained delight and reverence for pleasure as he did all aspects of his life, yet he had very little experience with such manhandling of his own persons.

He was large, commanding without needing to resort to crudeness or shouting and so the role of dominant fell easily to him. Rarely had he encountered someone so prepared to swap roles, and there was something thrilling to the prospect. An obvious and innate cruelty within the young man that he yearned to see more of, to beckon outward. A monster living within his skin that might clash against Hannibal’s own and he longed to see such a collision. A fissure of pain and pleasure and he would willingly release control to experience his brutality.

Hannibal finished undressing, folding his slacks into a neat square that he set on his shoes before glancing to his partner for the evening. The stranger was fully nude now, just as beautiful in such a state as he was kneeling at Hannibal’s feet. Smooth skin pulled across angled muscles- lean and yielding, the sort of muscles one acquired from laborious work rather than disciplined exercise. He was nearly hairless, the wiry hair that trailed down his legs and curled over his groin sparse.

Hannibal considered demanding to see his identification, more for a desire to humiliate and anger him once more than for any altruistic purpose. But the consideration came to a clipped end when the man bridged the distance between them once more, fingers digging into Hannibal’s shoulders as he captured his mouth in a bruising kiss.

His kisses were all teeth, the sharpened edges digging into his lower lip and rolling it across his crowns, releasing it slowly- teasingly- from between his jaw. It struck through Hannibal like a bolt, shuddered in his veins and he moaned into the ferocious mouth, returning the passion with ardor. The man’s hardened cock pressed against his own, the flesh warm and dampened from precome and he rolled his hips against him.

The stranger gasped, offering one final bite into the lip before dragging Hannibal across the room, teeth digging so sharply he felt the sting even after he pulled away.

An image formed in his mind, quick and furtive, of a banquet spread between them. The man tearing into the prepared meat with the same hunger he tore into Hannibal’s mouth and the ache it left him with was residual. Pulsing at his groin and spilling into his chest cavity.

The image shook loose from his thoughts when he was tossed back onto the chaise set in the center of the room. Carefully designed to fit in with the aging décor of the old theater yet the upholstery was new; freshly shampooed even.

The dressing room was just as much a stage as the theater dais itself.

He glanced around the room from his upside-down viewpoint, eyes falling upon the vanity that had been prepared by the staff of the club. A bottle of lubricant, some foil-wrapped prophylactics, and an assortment of toys- nothing too obscene, of course. Harnesses and paddles and silk cloth, all sitting before a tub of disinfectant wipes.

They would not be utilized, he knew. They lacked the intimacy he knew the young man craved, the twitching desire to feel the pain he created beneath his own guilty hands. Too detached and removed, too artificial when what he wanted was primal. He wondered if the man even came prepared with his own lubricant, treating the club more as a playground for his perversions than a purveyor of them.

The stranger wasted no time in crawling over him, agile despite his earnestness, and he straddled Hannibal’s chest, knees bracketing his head. He leaned forward, entwining his hand in Hannibal’s hair- a harsh hold as he tugged his head back. Hannibal hissed at the jerk, chin tipping up to the ceiling as knuckles ground into his scalp. The man used his other hand to wrap around the base of his cock, canting his hips forward as he guided it into Hannibal’s mouth.

He gasped, a delicate sound, as he eased himself forward and back, rocking his hips while he cradled Hannibal’s head, holding him in place. It was objectifying- quite literally, turned into simply a hole for him to fuck into, seeking his own pleasure without any consideration to the man beneath with. Not even allowing him the control to set his own pace.

It should have been infuriating, indignant in a way that went beyond standard humiliation play, and yet the moan it pulled from Hannibal was guttural. The sound muffled around the cock filling his mouth and his own groin ached with want, a silent demand for attention that was purposefully being ignored.

The stranger keened, hips bucking out of his established rhythm, the crown of his cock nudging the back of Hannibal’s throat. “I can tell you’re the sort to talk too much. Too many words in your mouth. My cock is a better fit, don’t you agree?” he asked, the words ground like glass, roughening the otherwise lazy slope of his accent. It sounded delectable, as jarring and fractured as every other facet of him.

Hannibal hummed in response, slackening his jaw and flattening his tongue so he could thrust forward unheeded. The hand twisted in his hair tightened, jerking in aborted gestures as if resisting the desire to pull him down with each thrust. To bury deep within his mouth.

His movements grew rougher and less kind, breath turning into ragged pants that hitched each time he was met with resistance. Spit pooled in the sides of his mouth, gathering behind Hannibal’s teeth, and his lips buzzed with the friction.

Hannibal reached out for him, curling his hands around the narrow hips- thumbs pressing petal-shaped bruises in the hollow they settled in. His hold was firm, his intent clear, as he slowly urged him forward, trying to take him deeper.

The sound the man made at the realization was inhuman, a cross between a choked sob and a shout and he pulled back so that the tip of his cock rested between Hannibal’s lips. He bent at the waist, looking down at Hannibal with glassy eyes. “Can I fuck your throat?” he asked, the words soft and clipped. Pleading, and though it was Hannibal’s desire to be used in just such a manner, he would have been powerless to say no even if it hadn’t been. He was a, after all, dutiful lover, taking his own pleasure but offering it in turn and he would offer this beautiful stranger whatever it was he asked of him.

A dangerous prospect, yet one he reveled in.

He answered the question by surging forward, swallowing him whole.

“ _Fuck!”_ the man hissed, the sound fizzling into a deep groan splintered from his ribs. He was buried within Hannibal’s throat, muscles clenching down on the intrusion and he lingered there for a moment- catching his breath- before he began to thrust.

He was hesitant, pulling back partially and easing himself forward- an act of consideration, offering Hannibal the opportunity to push him back. To catch his own breath. Even the hold in Hannibal’s hair had slackened, the touch yielding to pressure and he was trembling with the force of the restraint. Fighting against his selfish want to thrust as hard and as deep as he was able.

Hannibal growled, urging him forward by meeting his thrusts. Taking him as deeply as he could- until his nose was pressed to the soft flesh of his groin, each inhalation filled with his scent. He smelled like the earth, briny with the salt of algae-rich water and his own sweat. Like the perfume of decaying leaves on a forest floor and the heady musk of arousal.

Tears clumped in Hannibal’s lashes, an unbidden response to the ache of his throat being so filled, so obstructed yet he keened with each stolen breath. Keened as the stranger became less hesitant, more emboldened. Once more holding his head in place and thrusting in sharp snaps of his hips.

Words spilled from his tongue, incoherent and muddied in pleasure. Perhaps this was the first time someone had allowed him to be so rough; allowed themselves to be used so thoroughly and selfishly and he was buckling with the intensity of it. Legs shivered from where they framed Hannibal’s neck and with a pitched cry he pulled from the wet cavern of his mouth, sitting back for several seconds as he caught his breath.

His pale skin was flushed and glossy with the thin sheen of sweat, lips red and slicked with spit. His chest rose and fell with each uneven breath and Hannibal was certain he had never seen anyone more radiant. Painted in so many hues of life, reverently fashioned by masterful hands.

“I want to see my cock fill your throat,” he said, twisting suddenly so that he was straddling Hannibal’s face, knees prodding against his shoulders. He eased his cock past his lips once more, falling into the steady rhythm.

Hannibal’s head was tipped back and he slid into his throat with almost comical ease, the soft sac a delicate brush against his nose with each thrust. His moan was lewd, appreciative of the bulge expanding against the throat and he curled his hand over his neck.

He didn’t apply any further pressure, just a delicate touch to feel himself shift within him with each thrust. He sighed at the protrusion beneath his slender fingers, delighted with how deeply he was filling him.

It was delectable; even as his throat clenched down in protest, his lungs burning with the too little breath he was offered. He was choking on the man’s pleasure, drowning in it, and he was startled when the pressure eased. The man had shifted, his thrusts turning shallow though still filling Hannibal’s mouth as he leaned forward- his own mouth wrapping around Hannibal’s cock.

He moaned at the wet heat, bucking upward and chasing more of it. His arms wound around the man’s thighs, holding him close.

They were both fevered, driven by something manic and unhinged. Choking on the taste and feel of the other, the stranger toying his tongue against the folds of Hannibal’s foreskin in experimentation. Gagging as he determinedly took as much of his length as he could. It was as though they both were attempting to shatter the other. To find the loose thread and pull at it until they unraveled, left in tatters and pieces to collect.

Hannibal’s grin was wicked as he pushed the man’s hips forward, enough to pull the cock from his lips with a pop, a string of spit connecting his mouth to the pink head. His hands smoothed over the curve of the man’s bottom, supple skin pull taut in the bent position, before pushing him lower and inclining his head.

His tongue traced a seam, licking a strip down the stretch of skin behind his balls and flattening against the ridged hole that fluttered at the touch. The man gasped, moans cluttering his already full mouth and he arched his back- pressing against Hannibal. It was desperate and needy, a sudden break from his dominating composure. It emboldened Hannibal, hands holding him in place as he dragged his tongue in circles.

The tip of his cock rubbed at Hannibal’s chest, smearing precome on his fevered flesh and matting the hair. Friction just shy of enough, his groans turning into whines and whimpers as he bucked forward before rolling his hips back against Hannibal’s eager tongue.

The man rocked against him, as if unable to decide between seeking more of the delectable drag of Hannibal’s tongue against his hole or shirking from the pleasure. The overwhelming feel of it lapping against him, veins warmed like wires. Simultaneously too much and yet not enough, his ignored cock thick and full, brushing against Hannibal’s chest with each shy stutter of his hips. Searching for more firm friction that would not come, dampening the chest hair with his desire.

His moans were tangled, muffled in his mouth, and spilling from the corners as he choked on Hannibal’s cock, taking as much of him as he could. He was less practiced than Hannibal, though the enthusiasm was no less appreciated- each startled gag and quick, snapping jerk of his head as he pulled away when the intrusion became too much was just as melodic as his wanton sighs.

How might he sound if Hannibal was less kind? If he reached down to hold his head against him- hold him in place as he filled his mouth and throat? Unable to pull away, his lungs burning on the thin and reedy air offered to him from the nostrils buried in Hannibal’s groin. Each breath of air muted so that his mind swam and his eyes watered.

The stranger sat up before Hannibal could discover such, abruptly pushing away from him with panted breaths and crawling off the chaise. His knee hooked Hannibal’s side in the awkward and fumbling rise, no apologies offered for the indiscretion.

“As much as I’d love to come all over you, I love the idea of fucking you even more,” he said, bending forward to reach for his discarded jeans. He plucked a bottle of lubricant from the pocket, curling it within his fist as he came to stand at the end of the chair. “On your hands and knees.”

The command was a sharp and incessant thing. Like the drive of a blade between Hannibal’s ribs, slotting into place and electrifying his senses. It trembled down his spine, pooling in his groin as his cock twitched, pleased by the gravel in the man’s voice. The utter cruelty seeping within each syllable and Hannibal wanted nothing more than to allow him to indulge in all of his more depraved wants. The medium to the artistic strokes the man might make and he rolled over to his belly without complaint, propping himself up in presentation.

The cushion of the chaise dipped as the man rejoined him, settling in place behind him. Hannibal heard the pop of the bottle opening, the wet squelch of lube as it was squeezed into his palm. A hand clutched at his hip, fingers digging into the hollow with a bruising hold as a wet digit pressed against him. It was cold, pulling a sharp hiss from between Hannibal’s teeth.

“I’m going to fuck you so good you won’t know you’re own name either,” the stranger said, slipping his finger in to the first knuckle, wriggling it gently as he worked the muscle loose. “Won’t be able to sit without thinking about me for days to come.”

“What grand promises you’re making,” Hannibal said, words low even as they hitched on the intrusion, the finger plunging deeper within him. A steady pace- neither cruel and rough nor slow and daunting. Eager to open him up, to spread Hannibal so that he might bury himself within. “I hope I won’t be disappointed.”

“Careful what you wish for,” the man growled, sinking his finger within Hannibal, the knuckles of his fist curling against the soft flesh of his perineum. Hannibal’s eyes pinched close at the feel of the slim digit sunk within him, nostrils flaring with each inhale. The discomfort was mild, a barely noticeable twinge that disappeared entirely as the finger hooked against him, brushing along his inner walls.

The man chuckled when he found what he was searching for, the touch of his finger to the bundle of nerves earning an unbidden moan- strangled from Hannibal’s lungs. A guttural sound, almost inhuman with its wants. “Look at how easily you give in to me. Like you’re begging for it,” he taunted, words pitched with the tease.

Unkind words as he ignored the prostate, instead thrusting his finger in and out in a quickening tempo. The sound of the lubricant as he fucked into Hannibal was obscene, wet and lewd in the small room. It slid easily, Hannibal’s body quickly accommodating for him and he pushed against the hand with each thrust, a silent demand for more.

A plea the man understood, slowing his pace as a second finger nudged against his entrance though not slowing it enough that the stretch didn’t burn. The sear more than a little discomfort, felt deep within Hannibal’s belly as though he was being pinched from within, his organs contorted. His legs trembled when the fingers split apart, scissoring against his rim and stretching him further.

“That too much for you, darlin’?” the man asked, his accent thicker as it sloped through the mocking lilt of his voice- daring Hannibal to beg for mercy in the hasty preparation.

“I’m afraid I remain unimpressed,” Hannibal answered, lips curving into a grin. A partial truth. Though the burn of the stretch was constant- a shadow in the periphery of his mind- it was not so great he could not bear it. A dull throb that resonated within, ebbing away with each second as his body molded against him- prepared and ready to take more of the stranger within.

The hand retreated from him in a jarring tug, the fingers on his hip disappearing as the lubricant bottle was popped open once more. “Then I guess you’re ready for my cock,” the man said, busying himself with coating his erection before shifting closer to Hannibal. He gripped the base of himself, guiding his cock forward so the crown nudged against the hole. Partially stretched, the preparation hasty and clumsy.

The burn would be great, and Hannibal licked his lips in anticipation, releasing a breath so there was no air in his lungs to be knocked out from him.

The stranger waited a beat and when no protest came he pushed himself in, groaning as the muscles clamped around him. “Fuck, you’re so tight. Practically have to claw my way in.”

“More promises you won’t deliver on?” Hannibal goaded, straining to keep his words measured even as the hard length was pressing into him. Each inch stretching him further, splitting him in two.

The man growled on the taunt, hips snapping forward in a brutal and punishing pace. One of the hands holding Hannibal’s hips in place moved, the man draping over him as he shoved his clean fingers between Hannibal’s lips, They parted around three digits, the fingers hooking so that they tugged against the inside of his cheek. Saliva pooled below his tongue, slipping from the corners of his mouth. His head snapped back with the pull, baring his throat. A position not entirely like a prey submitting to a larger, more fearsome predator, and his moan was animalistic, rumbling within his chest.

The message was, if nothing else, effective. _Shut up_.

Unable to speak through his wretched open mouth, too full with drool and the invasive fingers, the only sound between them was the lewd symphony of sex. Skin slapping against skin, wet and slick from the generous lubricant- one of the few mercies offered by the stranger, though Hannibal wouldn’t have protested if he chose to forego that as well. Each thrust resonated within him, like the thrum of a violin as the string trembled in the residual pluck of a note held too long. The deep-seated ache meeting and colliding with the pleasure that sat in his periphery, nebulous and hazy. Never quite pressing against his prostate but making certain to brush against it- as if the man’s earlier attempt to find it had simply been to know how to avoid it in the most maddening way rather than to familiarize himself with Hannibal.

Panted breaths filled the room, stuttering exhales punctuating the sounds of their bodies joining. His thrusts were growing more fevered, more forceful. Realizing, perhaps, that Hannibal was enjoying how roughly he took him and allowing himself to indulge- to push the boundaries of what either of them was capable of tolerating.

Hannibal’s brow furrowed, eyes pinched shut with the crash of pleasure that collided against him. Like tumultuous waves breaking over a craggy shoreline, frothy and frigid water pulling against the earth.

It was all at once vicious and dangerous, thrilling and exciting. His vision blurred, tears clinging to his lashes- a physiological response he was helpless to stop. Helpless to the whims of pain and pleasure that seared within him, splitting his synapses in two.

“You feel good. I knew you would, the moment I saw you. I have a gift for that. Knowing people with one look. You talk too much, think too highly of yourself. Need someone like me to shut you up. Need to be humbled and give up control for once,” the man growled, words hitched over his grunts as the hand still wrapped around Hannibal’s hips dug in with a bruising grip, nails embedding in the flesh. Lubricant smeared over his skin, tacky and warm from the stranger’s fevered touch.

The fingers plunged in his mouth in time to the thrusts, Hannibal’s head craned back painfully. His throat bare and exposed, Adam’s apple bobbing with each aborted swallow, and his teeth dug into knuckles, earning a hiss. “You’ve been _bored_ , going crazy waiting for someone to see beneath that ugly fucking suit,” he grunted, pulling his hand away and entwining the spit-slicked fingers in fine ashen hair. He snapped his hips, pushing forward with such force that Hannibal was knocked from his propped position and fell to his chest, a heavy weight draping over him. The words were a palpable thing, moist and warm as they curled around the shell of his ear. “I see you. Wanting to be owned. Fucked. Like to make others hurt but like knowing someone out there can hurt you, too.”

A moan was pulled from strangled lungs, Hannibal’s own hips writhing in small, minute increments- compressed too tightly between the firm body behind him and the chaise. His cock rubbed almost painfully against the cushion, the velvet upholstery no doubt ruined from sweat and precome smearing the fabric.

The man’s thrusts were falling from their established rhythm, erratic as he neared the crest of his orgasm. He maneuvered Hannibal, jerking his hips to prop his ass up- back bending in a sharp angle, and his cock nudged against the sensitive bundle of nerves deep within him. Hannibal shouted, a low-pitched whimper slipping unbidden from between his lips as he kept the pace- pounding into his prostrate in earnest. Each snap forward dragging him beneath a current. Pleasure sparking down the branching veins, toes curling as molten heat crawled up and down his spine.

Yet, it all came to a brutal and unsatisfying end when the man changed the angle- shallow and jerking movements taking its place. “Maybe I won’t even let you finish,” he mused, his accent more prominent than ever, dragging down the weighted vowels. Voice gravelly as though speaking through glass as he added, “Take what I want and leave you sore. Leave you wanting more. You’ll be touching yourself in your expensive hotel suite, thinking about me, and biting your knuckles because you’ll never feel as good as I make you feel. I’m going to ruin you for anyone else- for yourself.”

The unspoken words sat on Hannibal’s tongue, garbled against the fingers and drool filling his mouth. Words that he would have swallowed anyway, knowing them to be false even as they remained unrealized. _Promises, promises._ Even the thrill of a tease could not inspire the evocation as he knew it was true.

The stranger had ruined him. Filled him so perfectly, pieces fitting together as though they were meant to be. Bruises blossoming on his pale flesh, unfurling like petals. Pain and pleasure mingling together, entwined so completely that they were indistinguishable from each other. Even the curdling indignation and humiliation at being so dominated struck through him like a bolt, a rare pleasure found in the relinquishing of control.

He felt used and battered, pressed between the cushion and the body thrusting against him and he doubted he would ever enjoy another so thoroughly.

He would gladly do it again. Subject himself to whatever torment the beautiful and cruel stranger had to offer him, toying with him in his own way. Urging the monster nestled within him out. Surely no one would compare to such, any potential trysts his future had to offer already made boring and mundane.

“Gettin’ close. Gonna fill you up,” the man above him grunted. In answer, Hannibal bucked against him, rising up to meet each thrust- filled so deeply his stomach quivered, the breath knocked from his lungs. It was the final push his partner needed before he was tumbling over the precipice, moans turned into a whine before muffling them on his own lip, biting down on the sounds. His cock pulsed, warmth spilling into Hannibal.

Delirious was the single word that came to mind. Hannibal’s body pushed so close to the edge himself yet denied, hanging by a damnable thread. His mind was clouded with want, muscles trembling with the tension of his held off release. Even as the stranger slowed, his vigor dwindling in the wake of his orgasm.

And, evidently, his cruelty as well. He was still sat within Hannibal, his cock slowly softening- come seeping outward so that it was a slow trickle along Hannibal’s thighs. The hand that had only seconds earlier been leaving welts in his hip was now gently petting it, caressing the bruised flesh as if in apology. And the press of lips between Hannibal’s shoulder blades- curls brushing over him as the man bowed his head to kiss down his spine- was jarringly tender.

An action not entirely out of the ordinary, and it wasn’t until the murmured words pressed between each gentle kiss did Hannibal understand that perhaps it wasn’t the action of aftercare but contrition.

“ _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,”_ the man whispered down each knot of his spine, the words spoken like a prayer. A broken one, desperate and rueful though Hannibal suspected the words- though offered to him- were not entirely meant for him. Not truly.

‘ _Curious,’_ Hannibal thought before rising in a smooth motion. He flipped them easily- startling the younger man and tossing him down so that he was spread out on the chaise on his back, glancing up at Hannibal with wide eyes. Blood stained his lip, smeared across his chin from where he bit too deeply against himself, spilling his own blood.

So hungry for something he didn’t yet understand, Hannibal’s lips curling into a smile as he reached for the discarded bottle of lube- tossed to the floor beside the furniture. “Foolish boy, thinking I’ll let you get away without taking you for myself,” he said, eyes gleaming as he watched his throat bob with a swallow even as he settled against the cushion- spreading his legs for Hannibal. How different he looked now that he had fed himself, fattening himself on his desire to be cruel. Gone was the ferocious and cold monster, displaced now that he had been satisfied. Leaving only wide, doleful eyes and pouting, swollen lips.

Had the monster settled in for the evening? Or was it simply pushed back within a cage? Sinking inward so that the young man could don a more comfortable mask. A disguise that fit crudely but was more appealing to those who might see it. Preferring to be seen by the world as something other than what he truly was.

Hannibal popped open the bottle of lubricant, squeezing it into his palm. He warmed it, massaging his fingers to the heel of his hand before sliding them between the cleft of the man’s cheeks. His index finger twirled against the ring of muscles, tracing it delicately before pressing into him. The stranger hissed at the intrusion, eyes squeezing shut even as he canted his hips- raising himself forward in offering. The muscles of his inner thighs pulled taut beneath his pale flesh as they flexed, hollows casting shadows. Hannibal settled his other hand one thigh, fingers sliding across the stretch of skin as he continued to work him open.

A task that was easier than anticipated, his cock twitching with the thought of the young man spending the evening in preparation. Working himself open on fingers that couldn’t quite reach deep enough- the angle all wrong. Slim toys that were too stiff, too artificial. Perhaps he tried to feed himself before relenting, leaving his apartment in a haste to enter the club.

“You think you’re the only one gifted by such sight? Do you truly believe I don’t see you for what you are? So ashamed of yourself you won’t even give me your name, preferring to be known as a common whore.” The man keened at the unkind words, color blossoming across his cheeks and seeping downward, painting his bare chest in crimson. How pretty he looked, flushed and panting; tongue darting out to lick the traces of blood from his split lips. His cock- limp and nestled against a bed of wiry curls- had twitched in interest, filling out once more as Hannibal sunk his finger into him.

It wasn’t long before he added a second- kinder in his ministrations than the other had been, taking his time and letting him adjust before stretching him on scissoring fingers. But it was a mimicry of kindness, a fallacy wound within the gesture as he crooked his fingers expertly and with all the skill of a practiced surgeon familiar with anatomy found his prostate.

He shouted at the touch, snapping forward as his chest rose and fell in aborted breaths. Too much, the stimulation overwhelming so soon after his release yet Hannibal continued to massage it, his opposite hand curling around the man’s shoulder and pushing him back down. He pinned him against the cushion, holding him in place as he stretched him further.

It wasn’t until he had reduced the man to an incoherent string of utterances and restless limbs, moues and whimpers mingling with labored breaths and sobs, that he pulled from him- a few seconds of reprieve as he found the lube once more and spread it over his cock. He has painfully hard now, aching from being denied for so long and it wouldn’t last. Too soon it would be over, a release he both longed for and resented.

He tossed the bottle aside when he was slick and prepared, reaching down and gripping the man’s legs behind his knees. He pulled them up, hooking the feet over his shoulder as he lined himself up to the loosened hole. He nudged himself forward, pressing the crown of his cock within- sighing at the warmth and the tight feel of muscles clamping down around him.

Hannibal eased himself forward, slowly spearing the younger man until he was fully seated- hips flush with the backs of his thighs. Heavy breaths filled the space, passed between them and Hannibal allowed himself only a moment to linger. To sigh with delight at how wonderful he felt, his lithe body opening up so beautifully for him. Wrapping tightly around him- muscles urging him further even as he tried to pull back.

How beautiful he looked, the sheen of sweat glistening on his pink-tinged flesh. Curls clinging to his dampened forehead and eyes half-lidded, distant in pleasure.

His first few thrusts were slow- less out of consideration for his partner than it was a desire to drag out the moment of his release, rolling his hips in an almost lazy gesture. Pulling out nearly completely before thrusting forward, sinking himself as deeply as he could. “Vicious, but only where it’s safe. Where it’s allowed; places and people you can leave behind thinking you’ve kept your real identity safe- not realizing you’re only a stranger to yourself,” Hannibal spoke, gritting the words through his teeth as he quickened his pace. He was pushing the man forward, further up against the cushion until his head collided with the pillowed back.

Hannibal reached forward, intent on pressing his palm into his shoulder to pin him in place once more but fingers curled around his wrist. The stranger grasped his wrist, guiding his hand so that it laid over his neck, the tendons stretched beneath flesh as he tipped his chin back- presenting himself, his want clear.

A dangerous proposition, and Hannibal might have laughed at how foolish a request it was if he wasn’t so singularly focused on driving into him. How many men and women had been killed in such a manner? Hannibal’s hand around their throat and his face the last they would see, filling their vision with maroon threaded eyes and crooked, sharpened teeth. Deaths that were too short, too uninspiring. Deaths made by a young man still maneuvering himself through the world, uncertain of what exactly he wanted and killing with all the judiciousness of someone experimenting.

It had been a long time since he killed someone that way, yet his fingers flexed around the throat almost instinctively, leaning his weight into it. He heard the choked breath as it burned in the stranger’s chest, lips parting as though it might clear the obstruction- nostrils flaring to inhale air that would not come. All unbidden, actions made by a body that rebelled against the lack of control, that did not understand the situation as well as his mind did. Or perhaps, understood it better than his mind did. A primal recognition of the monster looming over him, driving him further into the cushion with each thrust.

Still keeping his broad palm enclosed over his throat, Hannibal leaned forward, lips brushing around the shell of the man’s ear as he added, “Stopping your teeth just short of breaking skin even though we both know you want to tear into me. Rip me apart.”

He pulled back, loosening the pressure of his hand so that the younger man could breathe, mouth opened wide in greedy, hungry gulps of air. There was a faint imprint across the column of his neck, pink bruises that would darken in time, pride stirring in Hannibal’s chest at the thought of them being seen.

Hannibal slid his hand down, curling it around the cock pressed between- hard once more, pink and smearing precome across both their bellies. The man hissed at the touch, head twisting to the side and legs shivering where they were still perched on Hannibal’s shoulders. “Too much, too much,” he sobbed, words mangled through his bruised throat.

“And yet, you haven’t resorted to our chosen word, have you?” Hannibal said, head tilting as the man opened his eyes to glare at him through narrowed slits. His lips remained tightly closed, pinched together as if in emphasis of his refusal to say the word. Hannibal grinned at it, his hand dragging slowly along the length of the member. How utterly endearing he was- whether he was being petulant and stubborn or decisive and cruel. So many facets to him and Hannibal longed to know them all. To familiarize himself with the man writhing beneath as completely as he was familiarized with himself.

His thrusts hastened, turning almost desperate now. He felt his release deep within him, pooling at the base of his spine and spilling outward. The tension wound tightly within him, quivering like a pulse of current through his veins. Hot and electric, synapses and nerves sparking as he barreled toward the crest of his pleasure. When he spoke next, the words stumbled, clenched between his teeth. “Seeking penance in the form of my cock and my abuse. Deep down, you like this. Like making yourself into a whore for strangers to use so you can feel better about the things you wish to hide. Feel like you’ve been punished the way you think you deserve. Atonement for your unrealized sins found in locked and dingy rooms.”

The stranger was sobbing now, weeping as fluidly as his cock held within Hannibal’s grasp, tears spilling over the slope of his cheek. _“_ _Please, please,”_ he begged.

“Please, what? Stop?” Hannibal asked, slowing his thrusts only for the man to growl, tightening his legs against him.

“No, no. Don’t stop,” he hissed, and Hannibal resumed fucking him with ardor. Chasing his orgasm, his groin pinching as he built towards it.

Hannibal leaned forward, still working the cock in his hand as the other gripped into the hair, twisting it tightly in his hold. He guided him toward where his shoulder and the base of his neck met, his tone encouraging as he said, “Go ahead, darling. As hard as you want.”

He felt rather than saw the hesitation, a flicker of consideration holding him back before he lurched forward, teeth clamping around Hannibal’s shoulder and digging down.

Hannibal hissed at the sharp and sudden sting, teeth puncturing flesh and spilling blood. The scent was thick in the air, cloying and acrid. The bitter tang of copper mingling with sweat and come. _Painful_ , yet he reveled in it, pressing soft kisses to the crown of curls. As beautiful as he looked painted in his own blood, he was certain he would be radiant in the blood of another. The beginning strokes of a becoming that made something itch beneath Hannibal’s skin. A longing he couldn’t quite name.

Blood smeared down his shoulder, the teeth pulling back to be replaced by a tongue. Quick, furtive laps of it against the torn flesh that made Hannibal shiver, groan raggedly. “If you want to be punished, I’ll do so without hesitation,” he murmured into the curls, his thrust erratic and mind clouded- yet the promises were clear. Concise against the haze of his thoughts as he added, “But I see you, too, and I’d rather worship you than absolve you.”

The cock in his hand pulsed as the stranger careened to his second orgasm, dragging Hannibal with him. His orgasm crashed against him, torn from behind his ribs, bones splintering with the force of it. Technicolor sparks of color erupted in his vision, muscles tightening down around him as he pumped into the younger man. Filling him completely, spend seeping outward and coating his thighs.

They were filthy, covered in spit and blood, come and sweat and it felt _perfect._ Violent and vicious, like the scenes left behind from clumsier killers. Ones less precise than Hannibal was.

When the last of his come had been milked from him, Hannibal pulled himself carefully away from where they were conjoined, He dropped against the cushion of the chaise, winding his arms around his partner and pulling him close to his chest- further smearing the assorted bodily fluids as he rolled them onto their sides.

Time passed, indeterminable as they lay entwined together. Perfectly slotted, as though made with this precise intent in mind. Hannibal’s chin hooked over the younger man’s head, nestled in the tousled hair. Smelling the scent of his cheap shampoo with each inhalation, his fingers tracing down the length of his spine. The come spilled across his own thighs was dry, pulling tight against his skin and bringing with it an uncomfortable itch yet he made no move to rise for the attached lavatory. Too content in the languid embrace.

His body was heavy, lax in a way he couldn’t recall it ever being- matched only perhaps by the hours following a kill. The pleasant ache that undulated in his sore muscles, straining from the force of slow and extended torture.

Though it seemed he was the only one to sink into such solace, the stranger resting in his hold growing restless- twitching against the weight of Hannibal’s arm slung over his waist. Another facet of him- so unlike the confidently cruel man who fucked Hannibal and the timid one who had taken him in turn. This one shifted with unease, as if the very flesh pulled across his bones was too tight.

Hannibal pulled his arm away, letting him roll away.

He did, pushing himself from the cushion and stumbling on unsteady legs as he reached for his pile of clothing. Unbothered by the drying patch of come across his belly and leaking from his entrance as he began to dress.

Hannibal sat up, watching him through narrowed eyes. He was aware, of course, what the nature of their relationship would be when he agreed to spend the evening with him. Aware that it would be only a sliver of their life, a moment hollowed out in the universe before they would part their separate ways.

Yet, the thought was dreadful now. Tasting vile and acidic on his tongue as he considered it. How unfair it was, presented with someone so fascinating- someone he longed to pick apart and _see_ only to have to release hold of him so soon.

He thought once more of sitting opposite the man, sat on either end of the table in his hotel room. A grand enough room- one he was certain would impress the rumpled man (a student, he ventured, basing the guess on what little he did know of him. Young and poor and so very hungry. Hungry for things he didn’t quite understand even as it seared along the tissue of his stomach, a hunger so long unabated). His business within the city had yet to come to an end, and there was still time. Time to hunt, to prepare a meal that he might offer to the stranger.

Meat chewed between the crowns of his teeth, tongue licking at the lingering taste as his brow furrowed in an attempt to name the unfamiliar protein. Uncertain of exactly what it was but remarking that it was _delicious_. Wanting _more_ of it.

The man had just finished buttoning his flannel- too hastily, Hannibal noted, skipping a button so that it hung at uneven lengths- as Hannibal said, “You know, I’ll be in the city for a few more days-”

“Enjoy it,” he interrupted, his tone clipped and blunt.

Hannibal blinked at the dismissal, rising from the chaise to stand before him. He batted his hands away, unbuttoning the shirt to correct it. “I understand you weren’t looking for anything more than a casual affair. I’ll be returning to Baltimore in a few days regardless, and simply thought the time might be better passed in your company,” he explained, dexterous fingers making quick work of the shirt as the man twisted away, huffing exasperatedly but allowing him to finish.

The moment Hannibal had buttoned the shirt, he stepped back, tucking it beneath the band of his jeans. “I understand you mean to say several nights is no different than one,” he said, his tone markedly different than before. The cadence and syntax unfamiliar on his tongue and Hannibal tipped his head curiously at the change. The accent still settled in the words, dragging them downward- but it was tapered differently. A slight deviation that gave Hannibal pause. “But casual for me means one evening and one evening only,” he added in explanation.

There _was_ something familiar about his newly adopted habit of speech- recognized on Hannibal’s tongue and once more he thought of how _curious_ he was.

He was _imitating_ him, a habit that seemed unintentional.

Hannibal considered, for only a second, to present the offer once more. A feeble clasp at the sand slipping between his fingers. But it was too much like a plea, a beg for something that in the end he knew would still not be enough. That his trip would soon come to an end regardless and perhaps it was better this way.

He still had time to hunt, to cook for himself and feast on his preferred delicacy. His lips curved into a smile, tipping his head once at the man. “Well, then, in that case, thank you for the evening we did have,” he said.

The man hesitated at the words, jerking his head in a nod. He made his way to the door before coming to a stop, as if remembering how debauched he looked. Tears streaking down his face, eyes rimmed red.

Blood smearing his lips and chin- both his own and Hannibal’s. He raised a hand, cupping his palm as he spat into it, smearing it across his face and using his sleeve to clear away as much as he could. He still looked awful- would no doubt be stopped by several other patrons and perhaps even an officer on the street as he made his way home.

Hannibal’s lips parted, an offer to help clean him up in the sink sat on his tongue before he swallowed it. He watched him leave in silence, deciding that it was only fair that he should walk away with a mess on his face- his own ruthlessness so vividly displayed for the world.

Somethings simply couldn’t stay hidden for long.

~x~

_(Fourteen Years Later)_

Hannibal stood before the whiteboard, leaning forward to examine the compiled evidence and notations. Photos of young women- each a shadow of the other- clipped to the top in order of their abduction. A growing collection stowed away. Flesh rotting and _Missing Persons_ reports calcifying.

How exciting it was to finally stand within the halls of the BSU, only an arm’s width away from the very man he tormented with a missing person’s report of his own. How exciting it was to finally have his efforts rewarded, his friendship and professional acquaintance with Alana Bloom turning into the invitation to work alongside Crawford and his team.

Even if the excitement was tampered down by the poor decorum of a profiler who seemingly owned zero clocks, already fifteen minutes late for the meeting. It was unbecoming, tardiness one of the most abhorrent behaviors that one might subject others to. An offense and disrespect against the time of another, purposefully straying outside a previously agreed upon time out of some deluded prospect that the world revolved around them and them alone.

If not for the fact that this particular truant was a friend of Doctor Bloom’s- one she spoke of with such unabashed intrigue and fondness- he would have spent the minutes waiting for his arrival with a perusal of his collection of recipes. He would practice restraint in this instance though, if only because this Will Graham was nothing short of a medical curiosity. His disordered and unique brain a point of interest for many in his circle, and how foolish would he be to cut down the opportunity to examine it- to poke and prod against the gray matter- all because of a lapse in manners.

He would be forgiving in this instance.

“Sorry he’s late. He’s a hell of a profiler but he doesn’t seem to be good with clocks,” Jack joked from behind, his irritation thinly veiled behind the humor.

Hannibal turned to him with a smile- more of an impression of a smile, really. His hands slid into the pocket of his trousers as he walked away from the investigation board, settling into the seat opposite Jack’s desk. The one beside him, he noted with mounting frustration, still empty. “We must all have our weaknesses to balance out our strengths. Though I’m curious as to why I’m here if his profiling skills are so adept.”

Jack hesitated at the prompt, his smile twitching into a frown. He straightened in his chair, chin rising as he glanced at the hallway adjoining his office, the clear windows revealing many agents as they strolled past. Yet none of them being the one in question, as Jack lowered his gaze to Hannibal once more and said, “Will Graham isn’t officially a profiler. He’s...unique and he struggles with his uniqueness. Doctor Bloom referred you because she thought you would be a good sounding board for him to anchor himself to.” He paused a moment, adding almost wistfully, “He has his weaknesses, but he’s got a knack for the monsters.”

The phrasing earned a genuine smile from Hannibal, lips parting to reveal the sharpened ends of his teeth as he reached for the coffee he brought with him. “And you’d like me to help him establish equilibrium?”

“Yes, but maybe it’s best we don’t let him know that,” Jack said conspiratorially. Before Hannibal could question him further, Jack glanced at something behind Hannibal, raising a hand in the air and waving someone in.

Hannibal twisted in his chair, blinking at the sight of the man entering the office, lowering the thermos of coffee before he even settled it on his lips.

_Will Graham_ had changed since moving from New Orleans it seemed. Older now, the set of his jaw broader and covered with neatly trimmed facial hair. His shoulders, too, had broadened- still slight and lithe though unmistakably lean. There were creases now around his eyes, adorning the vivid blue with etches and deep violet bags dragging down his lower lid.

Yet there were things that remained the same, endearingly so. Still very much the stranger that had fucked Hannibal so viciously; that had spread open for him in turn. His hair a tangle of uncombed curls, his flannel button-up worn and disheveled beneath his jacket. He even smelled of the same toiletries, his natural musk occluded by the artificial fragrance that he had used fourteen years earlier- his tastes and preferences remaining dreadfully- _endearingly-_ skewed.

The evening was clear in his mind, preserved and suspended in amber. _Will_ had promised to ruin him and it was a promise that had endured, seemingly haunted by the young man. The memory becoming a specter, a phantom that he couldn’t quite shake. Somethings were unshakable in that manner. Carving into your skin and lingering like tattoos, permanent markings that would not fade.

_Will_ had been such a marking, the silver scars shaped like crescents in Hannibal’s skin still visible on his burnished flesh. His teeth burrowing so deeply within him that something remained. Taking something from Hannibal and leaving something behind in its place.

It was a small satisfaction that _Will_ seemed to recognize him as well, faltering in his steps as he approached the empty chair and averted his gaze. A blush crept out from his collar, and Hannibal bit down on the grin that threatened to stretch across his face. He knew from experience how deeply the blush traveled, painting his pectorals and abdomen in the same brilliant shade of red.

He looked no less lovely in it now than he did then.

“Will, I’d like you to meet Doctor Hannibal Lecter. Doctor Lecter, this is Will Graham,” Jack introduced, unaware to the tension quickly forming between the two. The knowing looks Hannibal offered that _Will_ resolutely ignored.

“Nice to meet you,” he grumbled, unenthusiastic as he set his bag in his lap rather than lowering it to the floor. Preparing, it appeared, for a quick get-away. His accent had been trained away, enunciating his words with such sharpness to avoid the lazy drawl that would otherwise latch onto them. Though perhaps he might still sink into it, his voice falling into the syrupy twang when he was in the throes of pleasure. Too lax and loosened to care about chasing it away.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Hannibal said, letting the words sit between them- the innuendo clear in the saccharine sweetness. The color staining _Will’s_ face deepened, his throat bobbing with a harsh swallow and Hannibal was unable to resist. The temptation too great, pressing into an old wound like slivers beneath skin as he leaned forward and asked, “Not fond of eye contact, are you? Too personal?”

He finally turned to him then, if only to glower at the older man with unabashed hostility, blue eyes turning steely in the halogen light of the office. The muscles beneath his jaw twitched, clenching in his anger. If not for Jack’s looming presence, Hannibal suspected he might have separated his teeth in snarl- a warning or a threat. As if Hannibal were somehow responsible for such a serendipitous reunion rather than an unwitting but delighted pawn in the greater scheme. A twist of fate that Hannibal couldn’t dare claim responsibility for but was thankful of all the same.

How he had missed the vicious little monster he knew sifted beneath the timid facade. _His_ monster, he amended to himself with a purr.

“Doctor Lecter came highly recommended from Doctor Bloom and will be assisting you on the case in Minnesota,” Jack began, flipping through the case files set on his desk as he began the debriefing. Explaining that the two were to work together on establishing a profile, ignorant to the way _Will_ bristled at the plan.

Words which fell into the background of Hannibal’s thoughts. White noise, static buzzing across his skull. He tapped his tongue against the roof of his mouth, once for each syllable of the name he had finally learned after so long. _Will Graham_. It sat on his tongue, beguiling and _perfect_. It tasted better than any wine he had sampled, better than any cuisine he had experienced. It tasted like sweat and come, like the bitter notes of blood. It tasted like reverence and condemnation all at once.

Like the brine of algae-rich waters and fire as it split and smoldered against wood.

It tasted vicious, and the pride he felt at finally knowing the name- possessing it as he had once possessed the owner of it- was a crackle in his chest.

He would correct that, of course, glancing sidelong to _Will_ beside him.

He thought, bemusedly, of the myths of fairies. That offering your name to them was as good as offering away your very self. Allowing them unfettered power and control over your persons. _Belonging to them_.

Perhaps that was why he had guarded it so carefully, separating the monster within him from the person he tried to be without. Depriving those who saw his desire to hurt the power of such a beast and now he simmered, contempt wafting from him that the two separate worlds of his identity had crashed so vividly. Crumpled like colliding cars, aluminum frames bent and twisted and glass glittering against a red-soaked pavement.

That Hannibal knew the name of him and the monster that twisted behind the ivory prison of his ribcage and might wield it against him.

A foolish mistake, of course.

Hannibal had no desire to wield the monster.

He simply wanted to set it free.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not me making this dumb story LONGER. Rather than overload a few chapters with a ton of scene changes to get the full story and whatnot, I just broke it down. This is a point of contention for me as this was written out of spite and to prove a point that I do not need plot. That was, apparently, a lie- and there isn’t even any smut in this chapter!
> 
> I’m sorry I’m like this, I wish I could change it too.

Will Graham had never considered himself a particularly religious man, his thoughts on the matter settling somewhere between ambivalent to nihilistic. But if there was a greater power- be it a singular omnipotent God or a pantheon of many- he was certain they had a truly dreadful sense of humor.

Heinous, was the word to most accurately describe the current situation he found himself in- sat before his boss as he delivered the details of an investigation he was unable to absorb. Too distracted by the presence of the man sat beside him- someone he had met once before and came to know rather intimately within the short span of an evening.

An evening which was vividly painting itself across his mind at the moment, technicolor and sharp. He pinched his eyes shut, rubbing at them with a withering sigh that made Jack pause. Will flourished his hand in a motion, bidding him continue without an apology.

Even on a good day, Will was hardly what one might deem professional. Skirting around the posted office hours and claiming to not hear the firm knocks against his door to keep from having to speak with his students outside of class. Arriving late with enough regularity that his coworkers had given up being annoyed by the habit- even though Will arrived on time each day and simply lingered in the parking garage, drawing out the time so he could slip in once everyone had settled into the routine of the day and he could turn to his work without being pulled into early-morning small talk.

He was by no means an exemplary employee, but even he had a standard of professionalism he adhered to and graphically thinking about his long-ago tryst with his new coworker was well across the bounds of that standard. Worse still was the physical effect such recollection was having on him, his erection straining against his tightening slacks and he was all at once thankful he had thought to keep his bag in his lap- originally intended to make his departure more smooth but was now serving an altogether different purpose.

It seemed his mind and body were in cahoots with each other, hell-bent on betraying him as thoroughly and humiliatingly as they could. No matter how hard he tried- squeezing his eyes so tightly that stars ruptured and burst in his vision- the memories from the night remained burned within the forefront of his mind, sizzling like the afterimage imprinted on an old television set. Lewd images of contorted limbs entangling together, the taste of blood and flesh on his tongue. A night he admittedly- begrudgingly, and only to himself- turned to with almost pathetic frequency as the years waned and marched on.

A nightmare, he thought to himself, shifting in his chair in an attempt to hold his bag more firmly against him without making the motion too obvious. He was living in a fucking nightmare.

“ _Tasteless,”_ he muttered to himself, a spoken condemnation of his own lurid thoughts. He had intended for it to be a whisper, the sort of mumbling he got away within his own department but that Jack and _Doctor_ _Hannibal_ _Lecter_ were less forgiving of, turning to him with matching raised brows.

“Do you have trouble with taste?” Hannibal asked, lips twitching into a restrained smile, eyes bright with unveiled glee. As if he made a joke he thought was very funny and Will furrowed his brow, trying to decipher the riddle-like humor but unable to see the innuendo wrought in the words.

“My thoughts are often not tasty,” he mumbled instead, flushing with the realization of how incriminating it sounded. He may as well have stood on his chair and broadcasted to the entire unit the very nature of his thoughts, megaphone in hand. He resisted the impulse to run a hand down his face; as if he might smear himself from existence- clearing his mind as easily as one could clear the fog of condensation against a mirror.

“Nor mine,” Hannibal offered, and his face flickered into what could best be described as a wolfish grin before flattening- a gesture so quick Will thought he might have imagined it. The declaration made his flush deepen, a mortifying acknowledgment that Will was not nearly as subtle as he wished to be nor was he alone in the matter. After several dragging seconds, Hannibal added “No effective barriers.” It was as though they held a private conversation even as they sat before a passive observer, a language of their own that threatened to pull the rug from beneath Will’s feet.

“I build forts,” he said, skewing his lips as he caught the unfamiliar lilt in his voice. A cadence and pacing to his words that was borrowed, stolen from the man he was resolutely trying not to look at. A desire to clip the conversation off like the wilting bud of a flower that threatened to disease the garden with its rot.

The subtext was clear, and Hannibal blinked once at the words as he tipped his head to the side- the motion not entirely unlike one of his dogs when they heard the command _‘no’_ but pretended to not know what it meant.

“Associations come quickly,” he prodded, trampling over the boundaries Will tried to erect.

“So do forts,” Will volleyed, his gaze slanting across the room, fingers twisting around the canvas fabric of his bag. He needed to leave, the itch beneath his skin skewing further away from the steady thrum of arousal and into irritation. He felt flayed open, raw and exposed- the beginning press of a headache like a thumb digging into the soft tissue and gray matter.

“I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind. Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams. No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love.”

He startled at the abrupt and succinct summation, eyes blinking rapidly as he turned to Hannibal- fluttering lashes fracturing his vision like a kaleidoscope. His expression was smug, delighted by the devastating blow that collided against Will, fragmenting him where he sat. It was not the first time he had pulled Will apart with his words and concise psychoanalysis, the memory of their evening together curdling in his mind.

His brow furrowed, twitching with anger. It felt as if his skin was crawling across his bones, too small to fit his frame. His cheeks colored, almost feverish in the heat of his blush as he recalled all the things Hannibal had said of him- now and then.

“Whose profile are you working on?” he gritted through his teeth, turning to Jack as he asked once more, “whose profile is he working on?”

“I’m sorry, Will,” Hannibal amended, his tone laden with faux sincerity, unable to conceal the manic glee that Will knew was otherwise thrumming through his veins. “Observing is what we do. I can’t shut mine off any more than you can shut yours off.”

He pinched his lips together, deciding it best to simply pretend Hannibal didn’t exist. To ignore the heat of the body beside him as he turned to Jack, lowering his head as he said, “Please don’t psychoanalyze me. You wouldn’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed.” His chair shuffled noisily back as he rose hastily, clutching his bag to his body as though it might act as a shield. The joke was clumsy on his tongue, unsteadied and unmoored yet he clutched fervently at it. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go teach a class on psychoanalyzing,” he ground out before fleeing from the room.

It was- he realized with mounting dismay- the second time he had fled after an undressing from the good doctor.

It was notably the first time it was meant in a figurative sense, though.

~x~

Will was shrouded in shadows, the night sky the color of spilled ink. An absence of light, disrupted only by the pinpricks of stars bursting against the shroud. White-hot, strung together in lazy constellations. He tipped his head back, eyes narrowed as he considered the expanse stretched before him. He had never given any real thought to the subject of astrology, though he was familiar enough with it to find the landmark clusters- the ones so identifiable his gaze was drawn to them. Ursa Major, Ursa Minor. Orion, his sword wielded high above his head, the shield guarding the soft flesh of his torso.

A position of attack and defense all at once.

His musings came to an abrupt end, the sound of grass crunching behind him dragging his focus away from the stars. He turned, a slow movement- distilled, it seemed, from the world that shifted around him. Struck by the distinct and strange thought that the world was filling itself in as it was created around him, disappearing as he turned from it.

His eyes fell on a beast set behind him, a bold silhouette cut across the horizon and illuminated from light that came from nowhere yet permeated everything. A stag, its head a crown of antlers that reached out like fingers, grasping hands clutching at the sky. A massive thing, though rather than feel diminutive before it- humbled by the behemoth of a creature- he felt leveled.

Measured and anchored by the sight of it and perhaps it was not him that the world was crafted around but the stag. A fixed point, the axis for which it spun.

He took a step forward, frowning curiously. But his steps were not quiet, accompanied by a residual boom that rang like a gunshot. It startled the beast, legs bending in a stance that lowered its center of gravity- stabilizing its weighted head. Preparing for a charge, snout lowering and bringing the antlers down with it so that it might spear and impale the night itself.

It fled, and once more Will thought of Orion. Protecting himself even as he readied for a kill.

But the boom that had frightened the beast did not end, a persistent thing that resonated within the world- the sky and stars trembling in and out of existence. Undulating like the shaky breath of a lung and with a sudden snap his eyes were blinking open, gasping for air as he awoke on the stiff mattress of his motel bed, sheets dampened from the thin sheen of sweat that broke out on his skin.

It was an almost painful thing, wrenched without warning from a dream. Scrambling to collect one’s bearings, to reattach themselves to the correct plane and time that they had seemingly been deposited it on.

Reality sunk into him in increments, creeping into his thoughts. His brow furrowed, lips curling as he stretched out beneath the thin blanket, flexing his toes. He was in a motel in Minnesota, investigating the man dubbed as the Minnesota Shrike- bearing the name of another killer, the body left like a coronation wreath on a chair of antlers too different. Too cruel to have been killed by the same man who ruefully tucked Elise Nichols back into bed.

He blinked back the image of the pale and lithe body draped over ivory antlers, crows feasting on her like carrion.

How strange it was- reality spilling into dreams, dreams blurring into the waking life. An exchange of truths, the seam of a divide with opposing currents that still borrowed the same water. The stag had been a byproduct of the crime scene then, he surmised, shuddering as the booming sound that had first startled the beast in his dream pierced the quiet of the room.

He sat up in bed, snapping forward as his gaze fell almost accusingly on the door. _Knocking._

Had he slept through his alarms, causing Jack to come searching for him? A glance to the clock on the bedside table proved otherwise- it was only half-past seven in the morning. His day wasn’t due to begin for another hour and a half, and he intended to sleep for as long as he was able- rolling from the bed to the itinerary with only a quick pause to dress between the two.

He preferred to shower in the evenings rather than the morning, as though he might wash away the stench of death and rot as easily as he could the dirt that collected beneath his nails. Cleansing, a ritual not unlike a daily baptism of his own sort.

Disgruntled by his early awakening, he considered turning on his side and ignoring the caller until they took the hint and left him be. Yet he rose with a sigh as he recalled just how belligerent Jack could be, demanding Will’s attention like a greedy child and surrendered to the day.

It was, he reflected later, his own fault for assuming it would be Jack as he pulled open the door without first glancing through the peephole affixed into its surface.

“ _Fuck me,”_ Will thought, eyes blinking rapidly at the golden light of day that spilled in as he pulled the door open- silhouetting the frame of Hannibal Lecter. His lips pulled into a frown, glancing behind the other man as though Jack might be hiding behind him.

How foolish of him to forget that the doctor’s flight had arrived two days prior, though their paths had not crossed.

“Good morning, Will,” Hannibal greeted, his tone bright and cheerful. “May I come in?”

Will stared at him, making no motion to step aside. “Where’s Crawford?”

“Deposed in court. The adventure will be yours and mine today,” he answered, hesitating only a moment before repeating, “May I come in?”

He glanced down as Hannibal extended his hands out in a small motion, presenting the stoneware container as if in explanation for his unplanned arrival. The top was clear, pillowed by the steam of whatever sat within the container.

His first instinct was to slam the door shut on him, locking it for good measure. There was something too on the nose about the situation- inviting him into his motel room, the bed still rumpled and sheets dampened from his sweat. The setup to a bad porno that was hammy at best and his teeth dragged across each other, crowns grinding together.

Yet, his hand hesitated on the door, his mind cluttered with the decision. It would be _easier_ to slam the door on the man, ignore him until their conjoined work pushed them together once. Grinning and bearing the tension and discomfort for the duration of the case until he could sink into the comfort and mundane life of a teacher once more.

Or, he could do the _mature_ thing and discuss the matter- establish boundaries and an understanding to make their work as bearable as possible. He pursed his lips, gaze lowering to the container held in Hannibal’s hands, the speckled stoneware hiding the food within yet his stomach still growled. It was cumbersome, balancing work and the more banal aspects of life while living out of a suitcase. Subsisting only on stale and tepid coffee from the meager breakfast nook in the motel lobby and an overripe banana. The thought of a proper meal- a warm one, made with ingredients he could pronounce and identify- was tempting, and with a sigh, he stepped aside.

He kept his gaze to the floor as Hannibal entered, knowing there would be a smug and self-satisfied grin cutting across the doctor’s face. He didn’t trust himself to not slam the door on him at the sight of it, avoiding his gaze even as he strode through the room to his suitcase, pulling the first pair of pants from within.

Modesty seemed like a foregone point between them and yet it was the precise notion that made the cloth barrier all the more necessary.

Hannibal, to his credit, busied himself behind Will- popping the container of food open and setting the cheap table for their meal. “I’m very careful about what I put into my body,” he began, the words making Will falter, stepping on the leg of the trousers he tried to shimmy on. He reached a hand outward, catching himself on the dresser and straightening his spine. If Hannibal saw the clumsy trip, he ignored it, pausing long enough that Will was almost certain the phrasing was intentional before adding, “which means I end up preparing most meals myself. A little protein scramble to start the day. Some eggs, some sausage.”

Dressed more appropriately- jeans clothing his once bare legs- Will finally turned around, crossing the room and pulling out the chair opposite Hannibal. It wasn’t just the food he brought with him, but an entire table setting it seemed. Plates and silverware- short cups filled with fragrant coffee. Vanilla and cinnamon mingled with the deep roast, far more tempting than the horrid offerings within the lobby and Will reached for it- taking a small and careful sip of the beverage. It seared down his throat, warming his belly.

He placed the cup down with a dull thunk, pulling the plate closer as he examined the food. Creamy eggs, the color of butter. Flecks of thyme and parsley were a vivid burst of green, the sausage seared a deep brown. He dragged the tines of his fork across the plate, making certain to grab a bit of everything, and brought the food to his lips- sniffing it before he settled it on his tongue.

It smelled delicious and tasted even better, the eggs silky and smooth- the sausage robust and hearty. He chewed thoughtfully, determinedly clamping down on the appreciative hums that might have slipped between his teeth if he was less careful. Yet, the more he chewed, the more his brow furrowed- eyes narrowing at the iron-rich taste of the sausage. A sharp burst of flavor within the typically fatty meat, a flavor that he recognized in slow increments.

Offal was a curious choice for homemade sausage- and there was something pathologically neurotic about preparing one’s own sausage within the limited offerings of a motel room. Something beyond the desire to keep a rigid control on what one consumed but he kept the thoughts to himself. It was- if he was being objective- a kind gesture and he was not so rude to spit at it.

“It’s delicious. Thank you,” he said, a proverbial olive branch passed between them.

Hannibal seemed content with the praise, turning to his own plate with a soft smile that was quick to fade. “I suppose now is as good a time as any to discuss the elephant in the room,” he said, punctuating the statement with a bite of sausage.

“It was a long time ago. No reason to make it bigger than it is,” he said.

“I agree,” Hannibal said, a jaunty quality to his words that made Will pause, fork stilling as it speared into a clump of sausage. Seconds passed, counted in the metallic drag of tines over the stoneware as Hannibal continued to eat, seemingly unbothered by the strange and disjointed truce between them. Will sighed, bringing a bite of food to his lips and plucking it from the fork just as Hannibal asked, “Do you think, in the interest of full disclosure, we should inform Jack?”

The prompt made him shuck in a breath of air, inhaling the meat so that it cluttered his airway. He rose a hand, cupping it to his mouth to catch the sputtering cough, specks of half-masticated food falling to his palm.

Hannibal glanced at him, head tipped to the side curiously though unconcerned as he reached across the table to pass Will his cup of coffee. It would do well enough, and Will sipped it carefully until his throat was clear and his face was less hot. He set the cup down, extending a finger in punctuation as he said, “ _That_ would be making it bigger than it is.” The words were strangled, choked over the lingering ache of his throat.

“You don’t think it presents a conflict of interests?” he asked, earnest almost as he glanced at Will.

“A conflict of interests can only occur when two people share a relationship. We very pointedly don’t have that. It was one night, years ago. That’s it.” His cheeks were feverish, his blush warming his neck and chest and face. Everything within him screamed to _flee_. To leave the half-consumed breakfast and man behind in the dingy hotel room as he made an early start on the day’s itinerary.

He forced himself to _sit still_. Forced himself to push away the memories that shifted within the gray matter in his brain- the phantom traces of his dream that left him startled and sweat-slicked even as his head was muddled with confusion.

Maybe he was coming down with something, he thought almost idly- reminding himself to stop at the Rite-Aid a mile down the road once the moment allowed.

“Perhaps not a conflict of interests then, but at the very least it blurs some ethical line,” Hannibal amended. Will scowled, stabbing his fork into the meal and shoving the food in his mouth, no retort to offer. Pleased with his lack of defense, Hannibal added, “Jack specifically requested I make sure you remain of sound body and mind. The first rule of psychiatry is to keep from establishing too personal a relationship between myself and a patient, even in such a different context. That includes entanglements that have occurred prior to the patient-doctor bond.”

“I’m not your patient,” Will said, his tone matter of fact. “Let’s just keep it professional. Finish this case and then you and I can go back to forgetting the other ever existed. I still maintain my belief in one night and one night only. It certainly wasn’t meant to extend to the day.”

“Or we could socialize like adults,” Hannibal suggested, raising his gaze to Will. “God forbid we become friendly.” The tone was filled with a fashioned gaiety- disguising whatever resentment or indignation he suspected shimmered beneath the shiny wrapping.

“I don’t find you that interesting,” he lied, lowering his gaze to his food with a resoluteness he didn’t quite feel.

Hannibal seemed nonplussed by the slight, his tone bemused as he said, “you will.”

Will grimaced, dragging his fork too-aggressively against the plate so that it made a peeling cry in the quiet room. The truly awful thing- the thing that might have made the whole ordeal funny if he was in less crooked of a mood and had a riper appreciation of his own despair- was that Hannibal Lecter _was_ interesting. Frustratingly so.

It wasn’t uncommon for men of such repute to engage in the sordid acts Will himself took great delight in- he often mused on the connection between positions of power and the desire to be stripped of it. His list was numerous, his body count ample, and he had been with many men whose careers and personal life would be shattered should word get out they had such affairs. He made it a point to never exchange names or information with his partners, but some things were evident. A demeanor that could not be shaken or faces he might recognize- startled by the sudden appearance of a tryst on the morning’s newspaper accompanying an article about their proposed plan for revitalization and business growth in the district they were running in.

Against his better want, he crafted profiles for all these encounters- and Hannibal had been no different. Dressed in bespoke suits made of expensive fabrics that were a jarring presence in the clubs Will frequented, his eloquent speech and the confident shift of muscles beneath his form. He _knew_ him to be one of immense control and power, had sought him out for almost that precise reason.

How fun it was, making the powerful beg- degrading them and fucking into them with such selfish and greedy zeal. He had a victimology of his own in this way, and Hannibal had fit nicely within those standards.

But the night had taken a turn he had been ill-prepared for. Not only did it stand in his mind even now, so many years later, as one of the best performances, but it was also the first time he had been contorted into the position he often forced others into.

Flayed and dissected for their perusal, examined with the scrutiny of a specimen trapped between glass and each correct assessment from Hannibal felt like a scalpel in his flesh, skin pulling from muscle and muscle from bone.

He knew things about Will that he himself ignored, denying them until the moment he reveled in the pain of another only to deny it once more when that moment came to an end. It was an uncomfortable truth, and he considered even then that Hannibal was a psychiatrist in his daylight hours.

He was partially correct in his assumption. He wasn't a psychiatrist at the time he had since learned. He was a surgeon when they first met, and a good one from the rudimentary search he had (begrudgingly) done on the man when his curiosity got the better of him and he sat before his laptop- pointedly ignoring the stacks of essays to grade. He supposed it might have been an organic switch from the body to the mind, though it still prickled against him. Strange, changing careers in such a manner. Surgeon was a respectable career, one that took years- decades- of hard work and devotion to achieve the reputation Hannibal had.

A natural predilection for psychology aside, what motivation could be so strong?

He was aware Hannibal was speaking, the timbre of his voice a soft press against his thoughts. But he was distracted, eyes slanting to his hands- one curled on the table beside his plate, the other pinched around his fork.

He recalled the feel of those dexterous fingers inside him, stretching him open with torturous zeal. Recalled them pressing down on his throat, his breath cluttered in his chest.

How easy it was to envision them, dipped within a bowl of ground meat and spices as he prepared the sausage; wielding a knife as it slapped against a cutting board. Wielding a scalpel with the same proficiency, dipping into a cavity of pink, pulsing organs with the same earnestness of the bowl of meat.

His lips pulled into an expression of repulsion, pushing the images aside as he tried instead to focus on Hannibal’s words.

~x~

The day descended into chaos from the relative if strained peace of their shared breakfast.

There was an odd thing that happened in moments of intense violence and panic. Time operated on its own physics. Both moving at a sluggish crawl- each second lasting an eternity, feeling as if the tragedy might be eternal, calcified until your brain was frozen in the haze of action- and moving at a tempo faster than one could discern. Spring-loaded, action before the thought.

There was a poem about this space between, Will knew. _Between the idea and the reality; Between the_ _motion and the act_ _, falls the shadow._

Abigail Hobbs laid in a pool of her own blood- skin translucent and veins prominent as she flailed, clutching for her own throat. Torn, a deep sliver that seeped red between her fingers, blue eyes widened in her fear.

His own hands- already stained in blood from her mother on the front step, filling in the etches of his palm- tried to hold her together. Keep her whole. But his body was plagued with a tremor, a shudder ratcheting up and down his spine, the surge of adrenaline like a poison in his veins.

The air was thick with the acrid smell of gun smoke and blood, a nauseating perfume.

He glanced up- helpless, pleading- to the man coddled on either side by the corner of the cabinets he had fallen into. Garrett Jacob Hobbs, torso littered with bullet holes, each one blossoming with red like the unfurling petals of a rose. His lips parted on his labored breaths, falling open as he hissed in a death rattle, “see? See?”

Will narrowed his eyes, feeling them cloud. He felt the slow slips, his consciousness fading from him in a manner that still left him upright. A not entirely unfamiliar sensation, a thing he knew to be dissociation. Had felt the first pull of it years ago when a knife had plunged into his shoulder and all he could do was let his thumb tremble over the hammer of his gun.

His hold on Abigail’s throat slackened, a physical recoiling of the otherwise tautly strained muscles, a desire to shrink tugging at him from behind his navel. His mind became a whirlwind of thoughts, of the realization the Hobbs’s gaze had grown vacant, his chest still.

Dead.

  
He was dead, killed by Will’s hand- by the bullets he plunged into him that had singed the air and left his eyes to water in the pungent scent left behind.

He knew the word wasn’t quite right for him. That the title of killer rarely applied to such circumstances as this; it was not a slaughter, it was defense. Protection of the girl writhing beneath his hold, crying out in gurgling, unintelligible words for the father who had cut her throat. Mourning his death even as she swiftly approached her own.

He felt, in ways he couldn’t understand, responsible.

Responsible for all of it.

His empathy was to blame, his diseased synapses borrowing too much from Hobbs, immortalizing him within his neurons and their frenzied pathways. But knowledge of such did little to amend the ache, the feeling that he had somehow wrought all these deaths. Elise Nichols and the girls who came before. Cassie Boyle, killed by another in derision of Hobbs- an indictment perched upon velvet antlers.

For Abigail, the daughter he loved so much he wished to keep her close- nestled in the crowns of his teeth. A graveyard half-filled by the crimes he understood too well, slipping into Hobbs identity like a comfortable and well-worn suit.

Both a killer and not a killer.

Lunging into the kitchen with a gun raised and elbows tight for the recoil.

A position of attack and defense.

He felt Hannibal shift beside him, kneeling on the ground so blood saturated the knees of his slacks. Will's relief at his presence was palpable, and for the first time since the day began, he was thankful the _surgeon_ had accompanied him. He pulled his hand away, letting Hannibal replace it with his own.

They were more sure, more confident. A firm press against the wound.

Will shuffled back, the floor wet and warm, blood tacky beneath his hands and he struggled not to slip against the slick surface. He sat back- shoulders resting against the legs of a chair- hastily pushed aside when the family's breakfast had been interrupted.

The air smelled of sausage and eggs; of ignited gun powder and blood.

He thought of his own breakfast- the same meal, he noted detachedly. He thought of the images that had nearly soiled his appetite then, threatening to do so retroactively.

Hannibal’s hands; twisting inside him, preparing food, performing surgery.

Holding Abigail together.

He felt the heat of eyes brush against, forced himself to meet Hannibal’s gaze- to linger the way he rarely allowed. Bourbon-colored eyes, almost maroon in the light that spilled in from the kitchen windows. They were watching Will. No-

They were _studying_ him.

As if his cowering form were the most interesting thing in a room coated with blood and the phantom presence of death. He could hear sirens in the distance, noises that were muffled. The world a discordant din he felt shrouded against, removed from.

As if he and Hannibal were the axis it moved upon, staring at one another. He could feel the dissection of his gaze, pulling him apart layer by layer. Diagnosing and scrutinizing him the way he had on that night so long ago.

There was another thing that had prevailed from their evening together. Another mark that made Hannibal Lecter _interesting_ despite his better want.

The men Will bedded held control easily in their hand, and it was a matter of pride for them- even if they wished to shirk such control in their more intimate moments. Yet none had effused such effortless control as Hannibal did. A control that seared with something else, something that had titillated Will when he was young and reckless and aroused by the threat of violence. Something _dangerous_.

A control that came not from his career or the manufactured aspects of his life, but from the knowledge that of all the sordid things obscured within the shadows of the club, he was the most fearsome predator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter has smut, I promise. Will's horny brain and thinky brain collide and turn into a mess (when isn't he a mess though)
> 
> For sneak peeks, updates, art, and my general nonsense, follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/_Renee_Hart) and [Tumblr](https://reneehartblog.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Hannibal is so fucking smug. I hate him.
> 
> There's a second chapter, with some rounding up of the plot and some more smut. (Ladder...ladder scene)
> 
> [Tumblr](https://reneehartblog.tumblr.com/)  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ReneeHa22144706)
> 
> Follow the above for sneak peeks to my writing, artwork and more!


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